


Prophet

by broomclosetkink



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Female Ejaculation, Friends With Benefits, Solavellan, sex between friends, squiriting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams from a dead goddess send Harea Lavellan to the humans Conclave, where the world explodes and she becomes a prophet for the Andrastian peoples of Thedas. Romance is the last thing on her mind, but sex goes a long way in making this possibly dying world more bearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prophet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valeryanroot (Roth14)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roth14/gifts), [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/gifts), [KeeperLavellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperLavellan/gifts).



> Look, Broomy's canon!Lavellan gets her own story! Stemmed from the headcanon that they were in a sexual relationship before they ever began to broach the idea of romance. And then it kept spawning.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Graphic depictions of childbirth and death.
> 
> Dedicated to my Sami, because she has put with a shit ton of phone calls that were literally _ages_ of me babbling about plot ideas. And feynites, who I scream about writer things with. And KeeperLavellan, who I also scream about writer things with, and hurl a lot of unfinished works at, and cry a lot about how I can't stop word vomiting and am going to be stuck writing Harea when I'm 80. They deserve medals and sainthood, but instead get fanfic and porn. 
> 
> I edited this myself, so... sorry about the mistakes, guys.

She is only eight when she feels the weight of destiny on her little shoulders. The heft and pull of it is too massive and complex for a child to understand, but her soul is old and it knows enough to press her into action. Her magic came the year before during a thunderstorm, lightning called down from the sky to her fingertips, dancing over her with hot flashes that should have stopped her heart and charred her from the inside out. But she'd stood through it, bursting with power, laughing into the rain as it poured from heavy gray sky. She drank of it, opened her mouth and took it into her body as though it were a baptism. Mamae cried to see it, hands held together under her breasts, smiling so wide it looked as though her face might crack.

 

But now she is eight, shoulders bowing under the pressure, little hands trembling. She's so scared her stomach hurts, like it's been tied all in knots. Still she goes to Keeper and demands, with her chin jutted out and her eyes narrowed with determination, “I want to help.”

 

Inside the aravel, Mamae screams.

 

“This is what we do,” Keeper says, placing a hand on Harea's shoulder. “We guide, even when it is hard. You will want to cry; life can be very scary, especially in the beginning. But we must be strong, even when we're scared. And you must do all I say, when I say it, just as I've asked. You can do this?”

 

She doesn't have think to before answering, “Yes,” firm and clear.

 

Mamae labors all day and well into the night, until Mythal's moon rises high and the stars fill the clear sky like a billion faraway candle lights. Harea fetches water and heats it with newly learned fire magic, mixes herbs for teas (for strength, for health, for pain relief, and in the end maybe simply as something to keep her hands busy). Babae cries, and leaves the aravel so Mamae doesn't see it. But they can hear hear his voice over the crackling fire and the bleating of halla as he tells ba'isa, “I'm afraid I'm going to loose them both.”

 

“Hold your mother's leg, like this. Good girl, Harea. Lean into it. Push into your mamae, and let her push onto you. She needs you to be strong. Good! Da'lin is coming. You must breath, Irosyl, just as before. Little pushes. Little pushes!”

 

She holds Mamae's thigh, puts all her weight against it as her mother strains and breathes and then screams as though she's dying. Harea is silent in wonder, in horror, in disbelief as a head emerges. Mamae falls back, panting, and Keeper has her hands under the head. She commands, “Now push, Irosyl, push with all your might!” A gush of waters, of blood, and the baby slides in the world red and swollen and little as a doll. A heartbeat, then another, before a wail emerges, thin and frightened.

 

“I've got a brother,” Harea says, one hand reach out to touch the fine, matted hair atop his head.

 

Mamae weeps, beaming, holding out her hands. The child is placed on her chest, over her bare breasts, and Keeper cuts the cord and puts a hand on Harea's shoulders. “You were excellent, da'len.”

 

But then Mamae moans, clinging to her new baby with one arm while her other hand fists in the oiled canvas under her. “This is afterbirth. Something's wrong,” she cries, pressing and pushing. Keeper is quick, hands on her stomach, feeling, listening.

 

She announces, “There's another,” and though there are tears in Harea's eyes she's quick to push back Mamae's leg, to hook her calf over her own thin shoulder and lean hard into her. The new baby and Mamae both wail, and it seems to last eternity before another little life emerges, kicking and flailing and _furious_ from the very first second.

 

When it's over and done she goes outside, bloody, exhausted, stomach aching with hunger. But she looks to Babae, who has heard the cries, and is waiting outside the aravel with tears and wringing hands. “Two little brothers,” Harea announces with a rush of pride. She starts to wipe her face, slick with a sudden bought of tears, but recalls the mess she's in just in time. Babae does it for her, whooping and crying and laughing all at the same time. He picks her up and spins her, kisses her head again and again, and then her cheeks and nose and mouth.

 

They all go to bed together as the sun is rising; Mamae and Babae, Harea and the little ones. One big pallet across the aravel floor, full of life and love and Harea sleeps with a hand stretched out to touch the smallest boy – the first one to arrive – because she can't quite believe that it was all real and she's a big sister.

 

She dreams of flowers in bud, of spring, of green leaves and sweet grass and fertile earth.

 

The next day the clan feasts – births are always received with great joy – and Keeper names Herea First.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

By eleven Harea is no stranger to death, as it is everywhere. Old halla pass and the hunters kill boars and rabbits and deer for food. Plants wither and fade, the carcasses of animals meld into the grasses or forest underbrush and return to the earth. A baby was born without breath, blue and gray, and Harea handled the lifeless body as gently as she would a living one, placing the little thing in her mother's arms. She wept when they sent the body on its way, buried with a seedling over her, a new life to replace the one lost.

 

Babala is different. He's Mamae's father, knuckles knotted and heavy with age, and his back and knees creak like bending wood when he moves. He's been many things in life: a hunter, a storyteller, a father, a grandfather, and lastly a beloved ha'haren to all the people of Clan Lavellan. One day he is as well of a man his age can be, and the next morning he can't get up and talks to shades that no one else can see.

 

“He won't last long,” Keeper tells Mamae, and it's terrifying to see her mother cry this way, like she's just a little girl. For the first time Harea realizes that once Mamae was a little as she was: she was a child and Babala her Babae, strong and sturdy as an oak, sheltering his da'len

 

As First, she tends to her grandfather. “We're going to help him,” Keeper explains, sadness written into the little lines beside her eyes and mouth. “A potion for sleep and then the peace of the Beyond.”

 

“Teach me,” Harea asks, and it is with her own trembling fingers she grinds sour root and mixes it with with precious poppy. They pour it into weak tea, sweeten it with honey, and Keeper holds up Babala's head while Harea tips the mug and pours the liquid down his throat.

 

Harea's uncles and mother come to say their goodbyes, then the grandchildren. Harea is the only one to stay. Babala looks so small on the pallet, silver hair ruffling in the autumn breeze that pushes through the edges of the canvas shades over the aravel windows. He hated being kept inside, keeping to bedrolls outside when the weather permitted. She remembers being small enough that he carried her to the edge of the camp, where he tucked them both into the roots of a yew tree and slept there. They woke to foxes sniffing at their feet, and Harea can still recall how she thought he was a special kind of magic.

 

It takes little effort to unwind the ties and pull the shades back. Moon and starlight flood in, as does a wind that carries the scents of life. Halla and sweat; smoke and forest; grass and a hint of coming rain. Babala sighs and the weary lines in his face seem to soften. Harea lifts the blankets covering him and lies down beside him, curling into the thin warmth of his fever ridden body. With an ear over his heart she holds his hand and tells him the old stories he once told her, of a time when the People were immortal, where death was but a long sleep and Arlathan was the center of the universe.

 

His breath rattles hard in his chest. It comes less and less often. Harea makes more poppy tea, drips it down his throat because he's shivering and gurgling. As much as it pains her, his suffering is unbearable. Now she speaks of her own memories, of fishing and hunting and showing him each new advancement in her magic. Oh, he'd been so proud when her magic came, had wept and beamed and kissed her dimpled hands with adoration.

 

“You're the hope for the future,” Babala told her once, smoothing heavy curls from the curve of her cheek. “You'll lead us all to something great, da'len. It's already written into the stars.”

 

Dawn comes, and with it another bit of the poppy. The twins are shrieking at each other: a fight over a toy. Babala rattles, but smiles and sweetly murmurs, “Da'len.” Gnarled fingers spasm against Harea's palm. With a shuddering exhale he is gone, spirit fleeing his worn body. She can feel it, the cold and emptiness, a certain wrongness of death when before there was life.

 

She washes him and changes the sheets, then redresses him in a his best robes. It's difficult – he is big and heavy, and she is small and young – but Keeper says the difficult things are often the most important. Harea thinks she may understands the truth of that, now. Now she combs his hair and works into it many braids, winding in beads, bones, and raven feathers; a prayer to Falon'Din. When this is done she takes a moment, just a moment, to sit with him. His spirit is gone but somehow lingering, hovering over her, and she thinks if she could look into the Fade like the dreamers of old she could see him one last time, young and strong and whole.

 

Exiting the aravel she catches Keeper's eye, who is watching with heavy knowledge. Nodding once, Harea moves to Mamae. Her eyes are red rimmed and circled by black, as though she hasn't slept. “Babala went peacefully,” she announces, her voice hoarse from so much talking throughout the night. “He's ready, if you'd like to see him before we wind him in the shroud.”

 

It is Babae that comes to her, after Mamae has joined her brothers in the aravel for a final goodbye to their father. He rests a hand on Harea's shoulder, kissing her cheek before pressing her face against his chest. “My sweet da'len,” he sighs, stroking her hair. “You're a wonder, my girl. We're all so proud of you.”

 

For the first time, the calm breaks and tears well up. “I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't cry.”

 

“There's no weakness in tears, Harea. There's strength in being able to weep and release your hurt, instead of being too afraid to face it. You were strong for Babala when he needed it most; now I'll be strong for you, love.”

 

They bury Babala in an ancient place, where the ground rises high to the sky and the trees of their ancestors watch over them protectively. Keeper asks Harea to sing to the invocation to Falon'Din and she does this with her toes pressing into fertile soil. A seed is planted, and she imagines the roots birthing from the shell, growing down and out like lace, wrapping up Babala and feeding on his remains. A part of him will go on, growing up and up and up, until one day the Clan returns and he, too, towers high enough to offer shelter.

 

Again comes the weight of the future, of a path she cannot see. Her hands have brought forth new life and helped the old to pass away; the Fade is a whisper against her mind, singing so softly that she cannot understand the meaning. Not yet.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

There is a comfort in the surety of knowing what the future will hold. By twenty-six there is no guessing at the path Harea's life will take. One day she will be Keeper, and life will go on as it always has. Into her hands the newest lives of the People will slide out, and she will lift her voice and spirit in praise to the Creators when other lives end. There is a hunter, Dav, once a city elf from Kirkwall, but he's been with the clan for twelve years and there is talk that he'll present her with pelts soon. It is not a grand romance but it is safe, and for this Harea is grateful. She will merge her life with this sturdy man and have children as is expected, and maybe, if she is very lucky, a child of her own will be raised to First.

 

What she has not taken into account is that the world is not quite so simple as it appears to be.

 

“Thedas is in chaos,” Keeper Deshanna explains, worry knit hard between her brows. “Mages and Templars are at war, the Chantry is crumbling, and the unrest of the People in city alienages grows only stronger. We must look beyond our boarders, Harea. If we do not understand, we cannot prepare and grow.” Pausing, she looks down at her hands. They are not old – Keeper is barely into her forties, and as hale and hearty as she was when Harea was but a girl. Still, there is something weary about the set of her shoulders.

 

“Mythal comes to me in the Fade,” she admits, eyes closing. “There is great change coming. Change that will shake the foundations of us all.”

 

Harea blinks, mouth puckering as she attempts to reconcile herself to this proclamation. “I – Deshanna, are you sure? _Mythal?_ ”

 

“Her eyes burn like golden fire and she speaks with a dragon's tongue. Don't speak of this, not to anyone, but... she warns me, da'len. And guides me. There is to be a conclave, moderated by the Chantry, in which this war between mages and Templars may hopefully be brought to a halt. One of the People should be there.”

 

It is difficult to swallow the idea of a goddess speaking to any one of the People, much less _Keeper._ But perhaps, if times are trying enough... “Dav knows the way of the humans better than anyone else. He would do well in this.”

 

“No. Dav is the not one that will be going.” A long, sad look speaks more than words ever could.

 

“Ah,” says Harea, the neat confines of her world beginning to collapse. “You want me to go.”

 

“Da'len, this the furthest thing from true. What I want is to keep you here, safe with us. There's dread in my heart, a thought that if you go everything... everything will change. Irrevocably. But the Great Mother has given me her wisdom, and it is this: Harea Lavellan will go to this conclave because it is, in the end, what is best for us all.”

 

For a time it seems as though her tongue is permanently stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Mythal spoke of... me?”

 

“We all have a destiny, da'len. Be a light for us all, remember your name and drive back the fear. Follow the words of Mythal and go. But... keep us in your heart, Harea. For you most certainly be in all of ours.”

 

She leaves within a week, staff across her back and a pack heavy with rations settled across her shoulders. Her mouth is wet with a kiss from Dav, and her ears still ring with the sullen silence of the twins; they had been furious at the thought of her out in the world alone. Mamae had wept, and Babae... he hid his terror from most, but she'd felt in his shivering fingers and the way he lingered with his nose in her hair. “Be strong, my sweet girl,” he urged, then turned quickly away so she wouldn't see his tears.

 

“I'll be back soon,” she murmurs, bolstering her courage. But the words taste of lies born of fear, and there's a terrible weight that threatens to crack her spine. She remembers Babae's words – _be strong, my sweet girl_ – and keeps her chin high. There is a time for looking back, and that is long past. Today she looks ahead, and will continue to do so until her duties have been fulfilled.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The moon is a sharp crescent, all angles and points, and even in the deep still of the night the sky and stars are tinted a sickly green from the Breach. The light falling down is odd, unearthly, and it fractures on the frozen ice of the lake like the hopes and beliefs of a whole world. Harea had thought she might find some peace here, out on the dock of the empty lake, in air has the sharp bite of winter. Instead she finds cold stillness that reflects back all her many worries. Her mind turns in jagged circles and with each moment her anxiety mounts, until she's pressing her face into her knees and fighting for air. It feels as though her lungs have turned turned to stone. Spots flicker behind her eyes, bright pops of light, and the fear in her chest swells to even greater proportions.

 

A hand on her back is startling, but it is big and warm, heavy against her spine and the curve of her ribs. She looks up to find Solas at her side, crouching down so they are nearly on eye level. There is a rather exquisite sort of kindness on his sharp face. “Shh,” he soothes, beginning to rub her back in slow strokes. “Be calm. Can you feel the dock under us? Hard, old wood, warping from exposure to the elements. Rough under your feet. Does it snag on your clothing?”

 

Her nod is small, more of a reflexive jerk. Still, it brings a smile to his mouth. “Good. And the air, it is very cold tonight. Snow will come with the dawn, I think. Can you smell it? How crisp it is?”

 

“Sharp,” she croaks, and takes in a rasping breath. It is not so difficult as before.

 

“Indeed, it is very sharp. This close you can feel the cold rising off the ice, can't you? Different than the cold in the air.”

 

“It's harder. Meaner.”

 

“Just so. Now take a deep breath, feel your lungs stretch and expand as far as they can. Very good. Now exhale, slowly.”

 

Harea begins to shake but it is not from the winter temperatures, her bare feet, or the thin clothing she wears. To her shame tears rise, too hot to bear, and she turns her face back into her knees to hide them. Solas sinks down to sit fully beside her, unhooking the ragged cloak he wears to swing it around her shoulders. Tucking the edges under her chin, he pulls her hair from under it before drawing his hand back.

 

Swallowing with some difficulty, Harea struggles to find her voice. “I'm sorry. I don't – that's never –”

 

“Anxiety is incredibly abusive to the body,” Solas supplies. He looks up, past the stars and over a mountain top to where the Breach churns angrily. “I am surprised it has taken this long for the effects to break over you.”

 

She doesn't know how to respond to this. It's all so... surreal. The world seems fuzzy at the edges in this moment, and yet far too sharp at the center. Her hand throbs, a ruthless pain that never really leaves. Sticking her hand in snow helps for a time, making it numb enough that the persistent burn is somewhat lessened. There is no snow close enough for this though, and so she tucks it between her thighs and chest, as though the proximity to her body will somehow heal it. The fabric of her borrowed cloak is lit up from within, and there is an audible _pop_ as the magic sparks.

 

Turning his head, Solas regards her with an expression made unreadable by the strange play of shadows and light across his face. “Does the mark pain you?”

 

Shrugging, she balls her hand into a fist and presses it hard between her breasts. “Does it matter?”

 

“No,” he answers, and she appreciates his level honesty. “But if it is causing you pain, I would like to attempt to ease it.”

 

“I've poured more healing magic into this damn thing than I even knew I had. Nothing helps.”

 

His teeth are very sharp in the Breach light, yet there is something slow and sad at the edges of his mouth. “I may have ways that go beyond your knowledge.” Extending a hand, palm up, he waits. Biting the inside of her cheek, Harea lowers her legs and scoots on her bottom, so she's facing him. Placing her marked hand in his, she holds his cloak closed at her throat with the other.

 

Solas' hands are warm. Callouses ridge his fingers, the crest and bottom of his palm, and sit on the edge of his thumb. They are competent, the hands of a man that _does._ When he reaches out with his magic it is a gentle touch, but it surges into her mark and through her blood like electricity, raising the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. It isn't pain and it isn't pleasure, but some indefinable place between the two that has her breath catching in the back of her throat. Her eyes close as it washes over and through her, an effort to absorb the feeling without showing an overt reaction.

 

There comes a feeling like a key turning in a lock, a sharp snap that makes her exhale suddenly. Opening her eyes, she finds Solas intent on her hand and the mark, illuminated by his own magic. She's never seen a mage work quite like this, glowing with magic so purely that it seems as though he pulls not from the Fade but from some deep internal reservoir. It pierces her, the realization that he is handsome; not traditionally, not like Dav who is whipcord thin, narrow of shoulder and hip, able to slip between trees like a shadow. But there is something... what? Otherwordly about Solas. The angle of his cheekbones and jaw, the width of his shoulders, the strength in his thighs, the magic he keeps pulled tightly about himself...

 

The urge to lean across the space between them and taste his mouth is sudden, though not shocking. Instead of acting on the impulse Harea passively waits for Solas to finish his healing work, focusing on keeping her breathing even and steady. There comes a flood of a relief, sweet as cold spring water on a summer day, and there is no keeping a deep throated groan from welling up. For the first time since the Conclave she is relatively pain free. She flexes her fingers, forms a fist and releases it several times. Solas studies these movements intently, still holding her hand and wrist in both his own.

 

“Better?” he inquires.

 

“Much. I don't know how to thank you. I thought – well, I thought I'd just have to learn to live with it.”

 

His smile has no pleasure or humor; it is a thing of darkness drawn from the Void and it makes Harea's gut clench in a fearful sort of sympathy. “I am the last person you should offer thanks to.” A pause, just a heartbeat or maybe two, before everything shifts and all that darkness is tucked away. Once again he is mild, head slightly bowed, eyes too knowing but offering no answers. “You are now the only hope this world has of being mended. It is my duty to see you suffer as little as possible.”

 

“Varric is convinced I'm going to die a terrible, gruesome death. It's the sort of things heroes do, apparently. Or live a long life full of misery and regret. Either option is open for me, he says. With that in mind, I think minimizing the potential suffering is the least I can hope for.” She has to laugh, because it's all so fucking absurd. A hole in the sky, a tear in the Veil, a magical mark of unknown origins bonded into her flesh and bone, and a Dalish elf named Herald of Andraste at the heart of it all.

 

“They bow to me,” she whispers, as though it's a secret no one else knows. “Humans, elves, dwarves; they _bow._ I don't... I don't like it. I don't want it.”

 

“I am afraid such a thing is unavoidable. However, it must be... unsettling.”

  
“Unsettling? Crawling into my bed and finding out my brothers stuffed it full of snakes, _that_ was unsettling. This is – insane. I'm a – a First to a Free Marches clan. I mediate for the clan and the cities we pass near, I heal, I protect them – I'm a bloody _midwife._ I help birth babies, and I sit with the dying and ease them as much as I can. I am the furthest thing from a religious figure as you can get, and this is... it's all messed up.”

 

Solas is silent for a moment. His eyes catch the dim light and reflect it back, nearly silver in the moonlight and reflecting the Fade glow from the Breach. He gives her a hand a final squeeze before releasing it, and she feels the loss of that warmth keenly. “Perhaps you are what is needed,” he muses, head tipping slightly as he regards her. “There is a saying from my youth; a healer has the bloodiest hands.”

 

“This is all a bit out of my area of expertise,” she says with a wry sort of humor. Giving a heavy sigh, she rubs her marked hand over her face, as though to scrub away her worries and melancholy. “Well, I don't suppose whining will do much to change it all, will it? Keeper Deshanna always says: you can't plan for the unexpected, you can only do your best when everything goes to hell. Well, it's a lot more inspiring the way she says it – something about mountain paths and snow, but I've heard it so much I've made myself forget. But the point remains.”

 

The side of Solas' mouth kicks up. “I believe you've translated the spirit of it rather well.”

 

“I'm all about the spirit of things rather than the actual form. Keeps life interesting.” Rising to her feet, Harea starts to swing his cloak from her shoulders. Solas stands in a quick, fluid motion – she must look very clumsy beside him – and gently bats her hands away to fasten the worn tog at the throat.

 

He walks her back to her cabin. Despite the kindness he's shown her – more than she has known since leaving the heart of her clan – there is a distance to him. This man is mysterious, trite as it sounds. He isn't cold like the ice, sharp and deadly as rusted nails and frozen to the very center. No, it is something else, something she can't name; for all his kindness and gentle hands, sometimes he looks through people as though they aren't really _there._ Or maybe it is that he can see right through them, and finds all he encounters utterly lacking.

 

She doesn't know if it's true or not, but this is the impression of Solas that she will carry with her from now on. It strikes her as a very sad life to lead, a lonely one, and she resolves to attempt and show him something worth focusing on. He may not know it, but he's in rather desperate need of a friend. So when they reach the door to her cabin, weathered and gray as it is, she takes the time to do more than hand his cloak back. Catching his wrist with her unmarred hand, she stands on her toes (Creators, but he's so _tall_ ), and presses a soft peck to his cheek. Stubble startles her – she's never known an elven man to grow facial hair before.

 

“Thank you,” she says as she drops back, smiling in such a way that she hides nothing and, instead, does her very best to show Solas how _much_ she means those words. “I very much needed a friend tonight.”

 

She doesn't think it's the cold that turns the tips of his ears red. “You are welcome.” Inclining his head as regally as a king, he takes his leave.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Proximity breeds familiarity, and familiarity becomes comfort. It is a Keeper's job to keep the clan together, to see the bonds between them all strong as ironbark and flexible as woven grass. In the beginning, Harea began to work these ties between her companions unconsciously, during those first days in Haven and the first trip to the Hinterlands. It was, she supposes, a habit too deeply ingrained to turn her back on. Or it was simply a way to put her on level ground. Shemlin calling her Herald, ungodly magic tearing apart the sky, the world falling into chaos... of course she would reach for something familiar.

 

Varric is glib and silver tongued, spinning stories and lies, always the first to laugh. But his heart is soft, his intentions good, and he reaches for friendship. So she becomes one half of traded jokes, shared amusement, a hand on his shoulder with a bigger one on her knee. They sneak away from their camps at night and share a pipe, suck elfroot smoke deep into their lungs and hold it as long as they can before giggling like children and basking in a moment of _normality._

 

Cassandra is hard, unyielding, a stalwart defender of the people, of her faith, of Andraste on her mighty throne in a heaven far removed from mortal woes. What she needs is certainty _,_ which this new world has so little of, and it puzzled Harea how to help her. But eventually she sees the gentleness at the heart of the warrior, the uncertainty that plagues her, and an unspoken wish simply to do good acts and be good in return. So Harea asks for advice and shares her thoughts: Cassandra, what do you think we should do? Should we go here? I thought, maybe, we might... Cassandra fusses like a ha'haren and fights like an Emerald Knight to defend Harea, now, and when the night is calm and dark they sit by firelight and share stories. They become, to their shared shock, _friends._ Those it was not easy and quick as with Varric, it is no less important.

 

Solas is careful distances and eyes that slide to the side instead of focusing entirely. Harea lures him into conversation with everyone; herself, their companions, people in the spare inns or taverns on the road, the refugees and worshipers come to Haven. She asks questions, because he has so much _knowledge_ that she would gladly sit at his feet and become da'len again to learn a fraction of what he has discovered in the Fade. Little by little, she finds his edges becoming soft and dull, and he begins not to speak _at_ people but _with_ them. Sometimes he murmurs dry, witty things meant for her ears alone and she has to suck in short breaths and bite her tongue to keep from bursting into laughter at wholly inappropriate times.

 

A Dalish First that left her clan. A flat-ear with his life spent half in the Fade. A dwarf that shaves his beard and loathes being underground. A Seeker of Truth who turned her back on the Chantry for their ignorance. They are a strange little group, puzzle pieces with mismatched edges that fit together to make something odd and new, but strangely solid. This is, Harea decides the day before they leave for Val Royeaux, nothing like what she believed her life would lead her to, or what she should become.

 

But they are a good clan in the making, and she would not face the potential end of the world with anyone else at her side.

 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The Chantry is infinitely more fucked up than Harea ever realized. In-fighting, turning away from the only people that have the possibility of helping because – and this she is certain of – their ornate leader and bearer of strange magic is not only a mage, but a _knife ear._ The Mothers looked at her as though she were vermin, not fit to be in their presence. Harea is not one for dramatic shows, leaving that to her brothers, but it had taken a wealth of will power to not start spouting nonsense in Elvhen and loudly proclaiming herself to be not the Herald of Andraste but the Herald of Mythal.

 

_Not_ that they would have known who Mythal is, which rather defeats the purpose, but...

 

Huffing in exasperation, Harea takes a long drink from her mug of ale. They are staying in an inn just outside the alienage district; the more reputable hotels and inns had turned them away. Some for the Inquisition daring to defy the Chantry, some on the basis that she was undoubtedly the murderer of the Divine walking free, and the other three had sneeringly informed them that they did not cater to non-humans. Solas seemed to take it stride, and Varric let it roll of him – though she's sure she saw him planting stink bombs in a few times – but she's  _still_ outraged.

 

“There's a giant hole in the sky that, I don't know, is probably going to rip open and consume everything or spit out demons and death and destruction, and everyone is bickering about the stupidest shit!” She bangs her fist on the table. “I don't _get_ it! And the Templars. _What_ could they be thinking –”

 

“People are stupid,” Varric informs her, before his eyes narrow and he leans close. “How much ale have you had, Lucky?”

 

“Not enough to make this situation remotely tolerable. If _I_ were in their shoes and someone with a magic hand walked in and was like, 'hey, I want to help make things better and it turns out I am the only one who can probably do this,' I would be _nice._ Because the world not, you know, ending, benefits everyone.”

 

Reaching across the table, Solas takes the mug from her hand. Realizing she has been splashing ale about with her gesturing, Harea doesn't put up a fight. “Perhaps no more ale,” he suggests, passing the mug to Cassandra, who considers it before shrugging and drinking it down. “You are attending the salon of the First Enchanter tomorrow, after all.”

 

“Piss on that,” she grumbles, wiping her wet, and now slightly sticky hand, on her tunic. “I don't want to go.”

 

“Come on, it'll be fun. Imagine the outrage when a Dalish savage makes a grand appearance. I bet you'll make at least one stodgy old dowager swoon.” Varric is far too good at wheedling.

 

“I'm a _person,_ ” she insists. “Just like everyone else. Who cares about ears and height and whatever? People are people. We're all being affected by this.”

 

Solas gives her a _look._ It is one parts shock and another part stubborn, but there's so much more she can't read. Which is frustrating, because sometimes she'd like to open him up like a book and read what he means, what lays between his words, what he _isn't_ saying. It is only when faced with this man that Harea has realized she is actually very good at reading people. When presented with someone who holds so much back with such startling skill, she flounders without guiders.

 

“I assumed,” he begins, and suddenly she knows where this heading, “that all Dalish believed themselves superior.”

 

“No,” says Cassandra with hard finality and a touch of wariness. It is not that Solas and Harea _fight,_ but they are known to carry on intense debates. That maybe one time ended with her completely losing her temper (a rare occurrence; she's always considered herself, at best, mild), and threatening to upend a pot of camp stew over his head.

 

She chooses to ignore the Seeker, and slaps a hand on the table. The sting radiates all the way up to her elbow. “ _No,_ ” Harea stresses, meeting Solas' gaze and leaning forward. “I understand that you have bad relations with my people, but assuming that an entire culture is arrogant because the ones you met were, that's short-sighted.”

 

“Yet the Dalish proudly keep themselves distant from all others.”

 

Frustrated, Harea bares her teeth. (She is beginning to suspect she _has_ imbibed too much ale over the course of the evening.) “Because it is prudent to do so. When Dalish come near a human settlement, we're often hunted, like animals. Or driven away, like pests. Does that mean I believe all humans are ignorant and cruel? No, of course not.”

 

“And what of their treatment of the city elves?”

 

Groaning, Varric puts his face in one big hand. “Chuckles,” he mourns, “why do you have this incessant need to poke bears?”

 

“It's foolish and repugnant.” Her statement causes Solas to lean back, surprise trickling over his features like a cold rain. “Elves are elves. That we are born into different kinds of lives is chance. I might have been a city elf, a servant to some Orlesian noble. Happenstance put me with my Clan: a lucky one, as I doubt I would have done well in a Circle when my magic manifested. But the important thing is –” Wobbling on the bench, Harea begins to feel the true effects of the alcohol consumed. “Elves, dwarves, human, qunari, _whatever_ – we all live together. We're all people, living our lives, trying to get by. Recognizing this is the only way we're going to save this world we all live in.”

 

Solas' gaze becomes intent. “You surprise me,” he admits, before a bare smile pulls at his mouth. It does not match the darkness in his eyes. “I am glad to be proven fallible once again.”

 

The weight of his regard, the shadows lurking out of sight, they stick in her mind even after they retire to their rented rooms. She falls asleep wondering at what it could mean, what lies behind the placid mask he wears so well, and her dreams are dark and disjointed.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Five days from Val Royeaux, they camp beside near a small creek. All of them, including their two new companions, are glad for the chance to bathe. On the grassy bank they shed their clothing and go into the cold water, where Harea lays down fire runes to create pockets of warmth. She takes more time than is her usual wont, enjoying the contrast between the cool evening and air and the steaming water. The portion they've chosen to wade into isn't deep, coming no higher than Harea's upper thighs when she stands, but she sits on the slick, smooth rocks and submerges herself to wash her long hair. It takes an age – it is thick, and rinsing out the soap takes patience.

 

“Your hair is very pretty.” Cassandra is on the bank, scrubbed clean and wearing an old tunic in leggings that she often sleeps in. Resting on her knees, she is scrubbing her second set of clothing, which is spotted with sweat and blood stains, and boasts neat patches and stitches where it has been rent by swords or arrows. “In Navarra, when I was a girl, it was fashionable to have curls like yours. Women would wind their hair up in hot curlers wrapped in thin, damp fabric and sleep in them. I can't tell you how many times I woke with burns on my scalp.”

 

“ _Ouch._ ” The thought of it makes Harea wince, and curl her palms protectively over her own head. “That seems... rather ridiculous.”

 

“Oh, it was. I loathed it. But my uncle liked to see me dressed up like a little doll, a perfect lady. The corsets were worse. You couldn't breathe at all. Now they've become fashionable in Orlais, and I pity the little girls forced into them.” Cassandra falls silent, and Harea leans back, dunking her head under water and pulling her fingers through the length of her hair to help work the soap out. She comes up with a soft gasp, lungs aching after so long under, and finally deems her hair clean.

 

“Do the Dalish do such things?” the Seeker inquires, genuine curiosity in her gaze as she looks up. “With clothes and such, I mean?”

 

“Mm, well, yes and no. We don't wear things that constrict movement, like a corset, and I've never known anyone to give themselves burns trying to make their hair look pretty. But for weddings and funerals and births, things like that, we dress our hair. Beads, feathers, braids; it can be quite complicated. Embroidery work on clothing is prized. Mamae trades with humans, when we come near settlements. Her embroidery always sells quickly.”

 

“Darling, could I trouble you...” Water moving gently around her legs, Vivienne steps close and holds out a soapy cloth.

 

“Oh, of course.” The woman sits gracefully, back turned to Harea, who begins to wash her back and shoulders.

 

“The satchel you carry, the embroidery on it, is it your mother's work?” The enchantress questions, chin touching her shoulder as she tries to look back.

 

“Yes, it is. It was a gift for my name day two years ago.”

 

“I noticed the work right away. I must admit myself envious of it; I have frequented the best seamstresses Val Royeaux has to offer, and none have provided such lush embroidery work. I notice you working with needle and thread at night. You do such work as well?”

 

“Not nearly so well as Mamae,” Harea admits, one bare shoulder lifting in half a shrug. “But I like to keep my hands busy. And it reminds me of home.”

 

“It must be trying, being away from your clan. That is the correct term, isn't it? Clan?” Cassandra pauses in the washing of her tunic to meet Harea's gaze, and there is earnestness in her eyes.

 

“It is correct, and yes, it's... I've never been away from them before. I was very scared when I left, and then the Conclave happened, and...” Shifting Vivienne's washing cloth to her right hand, she offers up her left. The mark is quiet, but still glowing, eerie and vibrant. “Well, it's been an adjustment. But a good one, I think.”

 

“I did not think your people approved of interacting with the rest of the world,” Vivienne comments. Harea is quiet, considering her answer while she rinses the soap from the cloth, wringing it clean before dousing it warm water once more to rinse the vast expanse of dark skin covered in sweet smelling suds.

 

“Many clans don't. It's dangerous. Elves aren't seen as people, not really, and especially not the Dalish. But mine thought it prudent to have contact with shems – humans, forgive me. That was rude.” She flushes to the tips of her ears.

 

“No worse than knife ear, my dear, an insult I'm sure you've heard quite often since this strange journey of yours began.” Vivienne waves the comment off with one elegant hand.

 

“True. But it bothers me still. We shouldn't draw such divisions, especially not now. My clan was always on good terms with most cities and settlements we approached. My Keeper and I were often called on for healing and our midwifery skills. Especially in the alienages, but for humans as well. In all my interactions with people, elves and humans and dwarves, I never saw much of a difference between us.”

 

“Would that all saw through eyes like yours. Thank you, my dear.” Vivienne takes the cloth back when Harea offers it, lifting herself onto her knees and turning. Carefully she pushes her fingers in Harea's hair, lifting several curls, which are already beginning to frizz in the air. “You _do_ have lovely hair, as the Seeker said, but might I suggest a way to tame it, somewhat?”

 

“Tame it?” One hand lifts, pressing against a heavy bundle of darkened blonde hair that has fallen over her shoulder. “I wouldn't want to take the curl away. I like it.”

 

“Not take it away, darling, but refine them. Smooth them, make them less...” Fluttering her fingers, Vivienne lifts her dark brow expressively. “Wild.”

 

Hesitating a moment, Harea pets her hair before giving a short nod. “I suppose.”

 

“Lovely. Seeker, if you would, in my toiletry case there is a purple jar with a silver lid. It's quite squat and – yes, that one, thank you.” Reaching across, Vivienne accepts the jar from Cassandra. Settling back, she opens it, revealing a thick cream that smells of something dark and exotic. She passes it to Harea before scooping some onto her fingers. “Now turn, if you would.”

 

Shifting, Harea holds the jar and lid in her hands while Vivienne begins to work the cream into her wet hair, starting from the roots and work her way down. “As well as defining your curls, this should make it much less prone to knotting and tangling.”

 

“That would be nice. Even when I braid it before bed, I always wake up with snarls as big as my palm. I've been considering cutting it all off, but...”

 

“Oh, no!” The look Cassandra gives her is horrified. “It's too pretty to cut off.”

 

“ _You've_ got short hair. Mostly.”

 

“But I do not have such lovely curls, do I?” Nodding firmly, as though a decision has been made, the Seeker goes back to her washing. Harea has to grin, warmth blooming in her chest. This is... comfortable, as well as comforting. Like being at home and bathing with her clan, talking about nothing important and washing each others backs, teasing here and there and enjoying the simple pleasure of companionship.

 

When Vivienne finishes working the cream into her hair, she has Cassandra pass her a few large hair pins from her toiletry case, twisting the length up and pinning it neatly to the back of Harea's head. She hums a short noise of satisfaction before speaking. “There we go, my dear, all finished. Leave it to rest for a short while, and then wash it out.”

 

“Thank you very much, Vivienne.” Screwing the lid back onto the jar, Harea offers it to the human. The enchantress waves a hand, a surprisingly maternal smile gracing her features.

 

“No need, darling. I am no longer in possession of hair enough to need this; you keep it. And when you begin to run low, do tell me.”

 

“Oh, I – well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

 

Cassandra takes the jar and sets it on the bank, in plain sight where it won't be accidentally broken or kicked, before wringing her tunic out. “As good as it can be,” she sighs, standing. As she makes the short trip back to their camp Vivienne exits the water, taking up a fluffy drying cloth and briskly attending to herself before pulling on clothing.

 

Harea washes languidly, resting her back against a tall rock when finished and simply enjoying the hot water. Sera is floating near by, humming tunelessly. Varric is soaking and muttering under his breath, with the distant expression that she's come to know means he's working out the details of a story in the privacy of his mind. Solas is quietly washing, the muscles of his back moving smoothly under pale, freckled skin as he upends a small bucket to cleanse suds from his body. The sight makes warmth curl in her stomach, hot and low, and she pointedly turns her gaze to the sky with a hard exhale. Lusting after Solas is pointless; the man needs friendship, not sex. And she has far more important business to be attending to.

 

Though it doesn't make the heat fade, and it doesn't keep her from darting another look at him. He's running his hands over his head, and the soft moonlight is kind to his profile. Plucking the pins from her hair, Harea tosses to them to the grass before lying back. He's not attractive. Or he shouldn't be. But there's something arresting about him; the agelessness of his eyes and the ridiculous lushness of his mouth, the hard angle of his jaw...

 

“Stop it,” she orders, sitting up so suddenly that water sprays and flows with her movements. Solas is on the bank now, his own worn drying cloth in hand, and he's turned to give her a confused look.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“Oh, ah, nothing. I was talking to myself. Sorry.”

 

It takes another dousing of river water to cool her cheeks and rinse the remaining cream from her hair. It is surprisingly soft – softer than she ever knew it could be – and she makes a note to find some way to properly thank Vivienne for the thoughtful gift. Standing, she makes her wake to the bank and picks up the waiting cloth. Flipping her hair over her shoulder she begins to wring the excess water out, already beginning to shiver as the wind picks up and hits her water warmed body.

 

It is by chance that she looks to Solas. He's pulled on his breeches, old and patched with ragged hems, both hands resting at gaping laces. But his fingers are still and his eyes are on her; air catches hard in her lungs as they follow the line of her body. The chill air had puckered her nipples but under his regard they become so tight it almost hurts, and his gaze lingers there, tongue touching his bottom lip. She thinks of that tongue at her breast, lapping warmth over one hard nipple, and she has to swallow, hard, to keep a whimper from jumping out of her throat.

 

He surveys the expanse of her stomach, not so thin since she's joined the Inquisition; she's always been prone to plumpness when compared to 'normal' elvhen women. Her breasts are too heavy and hips too wide for the waifish beauty so prized among their people. But there is undisguised lust written across Solas' features, from the tension in his jaw to the narrowing of his eyes, and she can see him inhale deep and sudden when he looks lower.

 

Elves do not have much, if any, body hair, and Harea is no different. Solas is the exception, shaving his head and face regularly to keep them clean and smooth, and she has seen the trail of ginger hair on his stomach. The sight of her mound, bare as it it, draws a faint noise from his throat. His fingers tighten on the laces of his breeches, the leather creaking under the strain. It provokes a hard shudder that has nothing to do with the cold to wrack Harea.

 

He meets her gaze, and the line his throat bobs as he swallows. There's a flush rising across his cheekbones, and she can't tell if it's embarrassment, arousal, or both. Instead of looking away or covering herself, she straightens. Pulling her hair behind her shoulders, she wraps the length of it in the cloth and slowly squeezes, wicking water away. It just so happens that this stance puts her breasts on display, lifting them high, and it makes her feel... powerful. Daring. Especially when he swallows again, nostrils flaring.

 

He _wants_ her. An unexpected turn of events – she had not thought her attraction to be in any way reciprocated. The knowledge is heady, intoxicating, and she's of half a mind to drop the towel and cross the space between. She could wrap an arm around his neck, pull him down and taste his bottom lip; she could splay her hand across his stomach, slid it down to feel the fine hairs that are so _damnably_ distracting, follow them all the way down into his open laces and –

 

“Maker's _balls,_ it's gotten colder!” Varric launches out of the water as though something is chasing him. He snags his own cloth and begins to hastily rub down, visibly shivering. “Have I ever mentioned how much I hate winter? I think I'm going to retire to Rivani. Nice weather, lots of lusty pirate wenches...”

 

“Pirate wenches?” Sera parrots, on her way out as well. Her short hair is sticking up and out at comical angles. “That sounds better than a kick in the arse, don't it?”

 

Turning her attention back to Solas, it is to see he's laced his breeches and pulled his undershirt on. His foot wraps are in hand, long ends trailing as he catches her gaze. There's heat there, clear and undisguised, and the sheer enormity of it makes her breath stutter. Before she has time to catch her breath he's turned and began walking away, undoubtedly heading back to camp.

 

By the time she's dried off and began pulling on the old, comfortable clothes she sleeps in, Sera is already dressed and racing away, proclaiming, “My tits are gonna freeze the fuck off if I don't get warm!”

 

She's pulling her hair out of the neck of her tunic when Varric speaks, his words coming in an amused drawl. “You know, Lucky, if you two were any more obvious you'd have been fucking right in front of us. Not that I'd mind – would make for a hell of a story – but try to keep it toned down in front of the Seeker. I'm afraid her head would explode.”

 

Harea blushes like a da'len while fumbling her way into leggings. “It's not like that,” she mutters, staring down at her bare feet. “It – we just – looking happens.”

 

“I've seen you naked plenty of times and I've never given anyone the impression that I was about to ravish you.” Grinning, he steps close and gives her a light swot on the bottom. She yelps, skittering sideways and shooting him a look of mock outrage. “Come on now, there's nothing _wrong_ with it. For all we know, the world really is going to end soon. You should have fun while you still can. And Maker knows Chuckles needs to loosen up; he's got a stick shoved so far up his ass I wonder how he walks.”

 

She has to admit, Varric _does_ have a way of simplifying things.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Only two short days from Haven, high in the Frostbacks, a snow storm erupts around them. Growing up in the Free Marches, Harea is no stranger to harsh winters; she has seen snow so high it trapped the aravels, blizzards harsh enough that they lost children and elders to the cold in the night. But the mountains come with a frigid rage all their own. The wind howls like a thousand demons fighting to take their souls, and within hours the snowfall becomes so thick and heavy that they can barely see a few feet ahead of them.

 

“We have to camp,” Cassandra announces, and there are no objections, despite the fact that there are still hours until evening falls. It takes much longer than usual to set up their tents, nestled in naturally formed crags off the main path, and between them they build a small fire. There's not a chance of hunting in this weather, and so they eat a soup of dried vegetables and hard, salty jerky. The biting cold drives them into their tents before long; there will be no huddled conversation around the fire this time.

 

There are no set pairs when it comes to the sleeping arrangements, and it shifts on an almost nightly basis. It just so happens that today, Harea is sharing this small, enclosed place with Solas. They roll out their bedrolls and pull out all their blankets, and he lays down fire glyphs on the treated canvas flooring and walls.

 

She pulls on extra clothing; warm winter stockings her mother knitted and over them goes a bulky woolen pair Solas threw into her hands with a smirk. Fingerless gloves, also knitted by her mother, and she changes from her riding leathers to a pair of fleece lined breeches she received on her last name day. Solas completes her bundling, still smiling in a rather fond fashion, by handing her one of his extra undershirts; it is stained and smells like him – the sharp musk of man and sweat, as well as the hot, exotic burn of lingering magic – and she tugs it on over her own tunic.

 

While in the process of wrapping herself in the great bear hide she sleeps under, Solas laughs so hard he snorts. _Twice._ “What?” she demands, hooking the edge of her fur blanket over her head and securing the ends in her lap to create a warm nest.

 

“You look like a bear cub.”

 

“It's _cold._ ”

 

“Can you even bend your legs?”

 

Frowning, she attempts to fold her legs at the knees. It takes a bit of doing, and the position isn't nearly as comfortable as it normally is, but once finished she gives him a smug look. “ _Ha,_ ” she breathes, pointing imperiously. “Yes, I _can_ bend my legs.”

 

That snorting laugh bubbles up again, and she has to fight the urge to grin at the sound of it. “Poor da'len,” he teases, ginger brows pushing up high in his amusement. “Should I go kill a ram and bring you its fur, as well?”

 

“Oh shut up. Not all of us can be walking furnaces.”

 

“Simple, sustained magic. I _have_ attempted to teach you.”

 

“Yes, but I keep burning myself.”

 

This sets Solas off into a roll of full bellied laughter, so hard he clutches his stomach and leans to one side. It looks as though he's going to topple, and Harea reaches into the pack at her hip to find something small and relatively aerodynamic. Curling her fingers around a bone lute Babala made for her as a child, she draws back and whips it directly at his head. It doesn't hit hard, but the _thunk_ of it slapping against the top of his bare scalp makes her crow, and his look of astonishment is even better.

 

“Harea,” he says, eyes growing suspiciously narrow. “Did you just throw something at me?”

 

She smiles, and it is not at all innocent. “Is your eyesight that bad, ha'haren?”

 

“You _are_ a da'len,” he accuses.

 

So she sticks her tongue out, and blows a raspberry for added effect.

 

“That is simply rude.”

 

“You're just sore because I clearly won.”

 

“I was unaware we were in any way competing.”

 

“You're an only child, aren't you?” she questions, shaking her head with mock severity. “Anyone with siblings can tell you that _everything_ is a competition.”

 

“Then you have an unfair advantage, and should be docked points for cheating.”

 

“Cheating! You wish! Don't hate me because I'm a winner, Solas.”

 

She is not expecting a magical attack. Quick, cloying tendrils of power reach out, pressing past her many layers as though the fabric isn't there at all, and all of them set against tender places. Her underarms, her ribs, between her shoulders, the bend of her knees, the soles of her feet. This power vibrates quick and playful, and she almost does a flip with the force that she wrenches herself backwards in an utterly futile attempt to escape. She squeals, then shrieks, then gargles and chokes on outraged laughter, all the while rolling on the floor like she's fighting off a physical attacker. Unfortunately her bear hide, so incredibly large, tangles around her limbs, trapping her even further.

 

Solas casually inquires, “You were saying, Herald?”

 

The tent is not very large, and by this point she's rolled against his outstretched feet. He pokes her with with the toes of one foot. “Not – fair!” she gasps.

 

“It is a competition, is it not?”

 

“Surrender!” she chortles, slapping uselessly at his shins. “I give – give up!”

 

The magic dissipates, and Harea collapses, bonelessly, onto her stomach. She lies there, struggling to catch her breath and blinking away tears of laughter. When she looks to Solas, he is leaning back with his arms folded across his chest, cloaked the superior air of one who has utterly crushed his enemy. “Jerk,” she mutters.

 

He tuts at her. “One should accept their defeat gracefully.”

 

After a period of recovery, she finds her lute – abandoned near the tightly tied tent flaps – and puts it away. In the process she finds her Bones, and upon showing them to Solas, discovers that he knows the game. “It was popular when I was a youth,” he explains.

 

“Here I thought that far back everyone played with rocks,” she smarts, earning herself an exaggerated eye roll. Scooting closer to him, she spreads the carved pieces between them, and they begin to play. It is not an overly complicated game, simply one where they match the number of colored dots to the piece played before, but they are both competitive. One game turns into two, then three, and then she stops counting.

 

While they play, they talk. Harea is always glad to have a chance to ask questions of Solas; he knows _so much._ He tells her of old memories, the nature of the Fade and the Veil and Breach, and of spirits. These topics lights him up with passion, makes his eyes burn and his hands move in quick, expressive gestures. They debate the merit of personhood when applied to a spirit – “Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith? Varric by his chest hair and not his wit? ” – and Harea finds herself sinking into a long period of thought.

 

“They are people,” she announces quietly, stunned by the revelation. “Different than us, but still... alive. Valid. I've never thought of it like that before.”

 

“I –” Closing his mouth, Solas looks at her as though he's never actually _seen_ her. “Thank you. It is not many that can open their minds to even the consideration of it. I had not expected this response.”

 

Frowning, she considers his words. “I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't at least consider it, after having it explained me. Don't you think? I mean I'm always going on about how we're all alike, all the same. Now it just... it seems very sad. They're kept back by the Veil, watching us, and when they cross over they're driven mad by fear or pain and turned into the worst version of themselves. I wish there was some way to help. Think of all the things we could learn! Like a, a Wisdom spirit working with a clan's Keeper, telling us what we've forgotten, what we got wrong. Or with the Chantry! Guiding them, helping them see the best path to choose.”

 

Solas' eyes are wide and his jaw loose. A smile works its way across his mouth, beautiful and yet somehow sad. “You are... wise,” he softly decrees, and Harea flushes so hard her ears burn and a sweat breaks out on the back of her neck.

 

“I'm really not.” Fumbling with her stack of Bones, she shrugs and looks anywhere but at her companion. “It's common sense, right?”

 

“How many would choose to see as you do? To see the beauty and worth in the spirit world, instead of only the danger it may pose?”

 

“If _you_ explain it, I think a lot more people would.”

 

“I have tried, with little success.” His gaze is far sharper than it ever has been in the past, and the weight of it is an almost physical thing. “I am glad it was you that received the mark. Many others would abuse the power it brings, but you... I think you will continue to strive to do only good. It is what the people of this world deserve.”

 

The way he looks at her, as though she is something magnificent... Harea has to curl her fingers around several game pieces to keep from reaching out. From crawling across the space between them and taking his face in her hands, from kissing his mouth until there is no sadness left, until he groans and opens for her tongue –

 

But his regard is too fresh and the last thing she wants is to spoil their friendship. Lust may come and go but this, honest praise and appreciation, that is something she would fight to protect. “It's your turn,” she blurts, to keep other words from tumbling out. Solas seems to understand, and turns his attention to game at hand.

 

Eventually Solas brings out a deck of cards, so old that the painting is faded away in some places; he keeps them in a silk bag, and runs his thumb over the edges with care. They're beautiful, all of them featuring gloriously rendered elvhen. “I learned this game in the Fade,” he announces, and proceeds to shuffle them with such flare that Varric would have been impressed.

 

“Spirits play cards?”

 

“Some. Spirits of Fortune, Curiosity, Mischief. I once met a spirit of Valor that never lost a game of dice.”

 

“I never knew there were so many different types.”

 

“Think of every emotion that can be felt, every trait that one might possess; there are spirits that personify each one. But this game I learned from lingering memories of your ancient ancestors.”

 

“Really?”

 

“It was set in a tavern, on the outskirts of Arlathan. A wayside place, with travelers coming in and out constantly. The sort of place where card games are common, as well as far more nefarious activities.” He begins to deal, thumb pushing the top card out before it was expertly plucked and laid before one of them.

 

Shaking her head, Harea laughs. “It's strange, but I never thought... that, you know, the immortal elves our people idolize did anything so _mundane._ ”

 

“Life is life,” Solas explains. “They were people, the same as you and I. Children chased each other and played with balls, lovers met in secret, marriages were arranged between noble families, food was eaten and wine drank. In many ways, it was not so different as this world we now occupy.”

 

The rules are complicated, but Solas is a good teacher. It takes four hands for Harea to begin to feel any sort of competency in it, and another two before she manages a win. They play for more than an hour, until the sun has set. It's still early, as darkness comes sooner and sooner as the season shifts towards winter, but the mage lights Solas set near the tent ceiling are soft. Combined with the cold, it creates a slow, lazy sort of atmosphere that soon has her eyes growing heavy.

 

“I'm tucking in,” she announces, handing her cards back to Solas. “Might as well rest while we can.”

 

“A good thought.”

 

He changes from his traveling clothes to sleep wear, all of it so light that Harea feels as though she's going to get frostbite just _looking_ at him. Catching the way she's eyeing his bare feet, Solas laughs, bright and warm. Sliding under his one blanket, he holds the edge of it up in offering. “Come on,” he encourages. “I fear I won't be able to rest, listening to your teeth chatter in the night.”

 

“They aren't chattering,” she grumbles, out of habit more than any real sense of annoyance. But she remains still, kneeling on her own bedroll and watching Solas doubtfully. “Are you sure? I mean, I know you don't like people being too close. I really will be fine.”

 

The lines of his face smooth and soften. “I would not have offered if I did not mean it.”

 

The lure of his heat is too great to pass up. Knowing she'll become _too_ warm if she remains heavily bundled while sleeping against him, she tugs and yanks her way into one simple, freezing layer. Dragging her great bear fur along, she darts across the small space and all but lunges into his bedroll. She throws the fur over the both of them – it's just _too cold_ for the man to go without more protection than cotton clothing and one thin blanket – and lies back. She's stiff at first, one arm and leg off the bedroll in an effort to keep space between them.

 

Solas has no such compunctions. He draws her close with an arm around her waist and she follows the guidance, rolling to her side and snuggling into him. He's so... _big._ Tall and broad as some shem men, bigger than a few even, and she can't suppress a thrill of appreciative attraction at how he dwarfs her. His forearm is heavy on the dip of her waist, and though he has to brush her hair back to keep it from tickling his nose, he seems perfectly content to snuggle. It's a little mind blowing. Solas... _snuggling._

 

It takes a few moments of shifting before they're both comfortable. They end up with her head on his arm, cold nose pressed against his throat (he yelped at the first touch of it, and she'd laughed at the high, shocked sound), and her feet tucked between his bare calves. As she drifts into sleep, warm and far more content than she's been in months, Harea feels his hand spread across the small of her back. The touch is solid and sure, even through the thick fabric of her tunic, and she hums appreciatively before the Fade pulls her away.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

She's hot, sweat on her neck and down the line of her spine, and still half in dreams. Everything is dark, too warm, skin sliding and a tongue between her breasts. Her hands are on broad shoulders, blunt fingernails pressing into skin to feel the muscle beneath. Solas is over her, holding her down, pressing into her and, Creators, yes, it's _so good._ She lifts her hips up and it's her hand between her legs, fingers barely able to move due to the constriction of her breeches. But she's so wet, clit throbbing, aching, and if she could only – if she could just –

 

Harea wakes with the hot roll of an orgasm. It's a small thing, shadows and a gush of slick that makes her moan, high and choked. Behind her there's a hard breath sucked in, an arm around her waist pulling her tight against a body so taut with restrain that it must hurt. For a moment she's bliss and need, floating, turning her face into the fabric under her cheek and moving her fingers _just so,_ because she needs more. But then the cobwebs of the Fade snap, and she's back in the tent, with the wind shaking the canvas and Solas' breath against her neck. It's quick, ragged, and she goes perfectly still.

 

“Oh,” she says, softly. And then, “Oh, no.”

 

Maybe he's still asleep. Maybe he'll never know that he invited her into his bed and she dreamed of him inside her, that she came against her fingers and is still thrumming with need. She can move, shift away, slink back to her own bedroll and pretend this never, ever happened.

 

“Harea.” Solas' voice is lower than she's ever heard it, edged with want, and it makes her stomach drop.

 

For a second she struggles for words. “I'm sorry,” she forces out, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hand is still in her breeches; she can't move it, is too ashamed to draw attention to it. “Creators, Solas, I'm _so sorry._ ”

 

“No. There is no...” His hand is against her ribs, under her breast, and it tightens into a hard fist. They've shifted during the night, turned so her back is to his chest, and she's thankful she can't see his face. His body may respond, but he's always been so careful of the distance he keeps. Shame sweeps over her, so strong it makes her chest ache. Appreciating him from a distance is one thing; masturbating in his bedroll while he sleeps is another beast entirely.

 

His breathing picks up. He leans, drawing closer and turning his nose into her hair. “I cast a barrier,” he rasps, mouth brushing her ear. “So the others would not hear.” Mythal, had she _screamed?_

 

His fist relaxes, and spreading until he is almost, but not quite, cupping her breast. Slowly, as though he is waiting for her to stop him, or maybe waiting for some higher sense to stop himself, he runs his palm down. On her stomach he pauses and presses against the soft flesh there. He takes in the way it quivers under his touch and moves her with her breathing. Then it goes on, finds her forearm and follows it down. His thumb curls, pressing between her arm and pelvic bone, until it is trapped under her wrist and his fingers are spread against the laces of her breeches. He presses down and they both jerk, and then the edge of her ear is between his teeth and he's pulling at the leather thong.

 

“I woke to you coming, crying my name out so prettily. Then this little hand squirmed down, and I could _hear_ how wet you were – _are_ –” A hard jerk and the cord snaps. He pushes the flaps open, touches the back of her hand and fingers so lightly that the hair on her arms stands on end. The parted fabric allows his hand to go farther, past her own, until he traces the lips of her sex. Harea chokes on a moan and can't keep her hips from moving, because she _wants_ him more than she's ever desired another person. Two blunt fingers rest at her opening, a maddeningly light pressure, and Solas groans so deeply she can feel the vibrations of it. “Fenedhis, you are so – I had to hear you, see you, _smell_ you – and you came again, shaking against me –”

 

“Gods, Solas, _please_.” She doesn't know what she's asking for. Anything. Everything.

 

“I want to feel it. Touch yourself, like before. Yes. _Yes._ ” He hisses between his teeth, sliding his fingers back and forth; not enough pressure, not going inside. “I'm going to hold you, right here, like this, and feel you come for me.”

 

“Oh, fuck _yes,_ Solas, _fuck_ –” She's already gasping, free hand bunching the bedroll under her in a tight fist. It's a hot, sweet pressure in her cunt and stomach, making her thighs and arms tremble. It won't be enough, won't take her over the hard edge, but she knows this build. Little pleasures, one after another, until she's half mad, soaking, and begging to be filled. She'll come for him until she's wrung dry, until she can't move. She'll give him – “Fuck, everything, it's yours, Solas. Gods. Creators. _Fuck,_ I want you, I want you, please. Please.” Harea tightens her jaw, tries to hold her breath and be quiet. But Solas is cupping her while she rubs herself off and it's too much, too good. Then he dips a finger just barely inside, and she's choking on a sound of brutal pleasure. She can feel the juices leaving her, coating Solas' hand and trickling down to her bottom. She pulls her hand from under his to grasp the back of his. She grips it tightly, fingertips against his knuckles as she fucks herself against his palm.

 

The sound he makes is vicious. “Juveran na su tarasyl,” he promises – or maybe threatens – before his mouth is on her neck. His bite comes as a shock, but Harea has always like a little pain – maybe too much, according to some. His teeth are sharp, his tongue hot against her skin, and she plants one foot on the floor as her hips jerk. Spots flicker behind her eyes and, Creators save her, she _floods_ in his hold.

 

For a moment he is still. Harea's chest heaves. The wind moans, muffling the deep rasp of Varric's snoring in the next tent. Behind their small camp, tucked between the tents and outcropping, a horse nickers. And then Solas exhales, hard, and leans over her. His hand pulls away from her sex and the air is too cold against it, but he takes her chin in his slick hand and turns her face to his. She feels like she could cry when he kisses her, because sweet Sylaise she is torn up with lusting for him.

 

It is not kind, this kiss. It is hard, primal wanting; he licks her teeth and bites her lower lip, sucks her tongue into his mouth and then growls like an animal. She doesn't know where in the hell a hermit learned this, but if she ever finds the person responsible she's going to fall on her knees and praise them.

 

When he pulls away, he leaves her jaw and neck slick with her own come. At some point he'd called mage lights into being, small things that cast them in a soft, yellow glow. It allows her to watch him lick one finger, and she whimpers. The sight of it, that pink tongue tasting her off his own hand, it  _does_ things to her. Things she didn't know were possible without manual stimulation. But then he sighs and his eyes close tight as though he's savoring it, and he sucks two fingers in his mouth and licks them clean. Thoroughly.

 

Harea damn near screams just watching.

 

He leans back and she lurches, unsteady after resting so heavily against him. His wet hand comes to rest on her shoulder, saliva slick fingers against her neck, pushing lightly until she's on her back. She hasn't got enough sense in her to ask, _is this okay? Do you want to stop?_ But then she doesn't need words, because he's pulling at the laces of her tunic, quickly working them open. He doesn't simply loosen them, but pulls the rolled fabric entirely from the eyes, until it is gaping open to her navel. Squirming, she finds the hem and starts to lift it, but Solas has already pushed one side over. It falls from her shoulder and bunches on her upper arm, bearing one breast. Lowering his head, he carefully runs his nose along the soft rise. Harea makes a noise that she's immediately embarrassed of – there's nothing desirable about sounding like a constipated halla – but Solas reacts by palming the underside. He drags the seam of his mouth lightly across her nipple.

 

“You,” he starts, but then groans and pulls that hard peak into his mouth. He sucks strongly, opens his mouth wider and sets his teeth against her areola before scrapping them inward, across the rigid flesh. At the base of the nipple he bites, not very hard, but Harea arches into him. One hand flies to his head, curling around the back of his bare scalp to try and hold him there.

 

She gasps, “Oh _fuck,_ ” when he sucks again, dragging the flat of his tongue against the hard point. But she writhes when he sets his teeth against the base and bites a second time, much harder, and pulls up slowly. Something like a shriek is in her throat, pleasured pain radiating out, and it feels as though lightning is striking against her fingertips and toes.

 

“You're so _soft,_ ” Solas finally gets out, spreading his hand across her stomach before he turns to her other breast.

 

Her hands finds his back, fingers curling into the thin fabric covering him, pulling until the back of his shirt is gathered at his shoulders. She's desperate for his skin, any part of it she can find. Pressing her palms against bunched muscles, her fingers find the ridge of his spine. Something about this touch pulls a ragged sound from Solas, one that is smothered in the valley between her breasts. He rears up without warning, jerking his shirt over his head and off his long arms. Harea takes the moment to follow suit, rocking upright before working herself free of her tunic.

 

Tossing it somewhere behind her, her gaze lands on Solas' hands; hands that are hastily working at the ties of his breeches. He curses when the knot tightens instead of loosening, a look akin to fury cross his face. It's like a physical punch, the shock of lust that bursts that over her at watching this. While Solas fights his ties she shucks her breeches down in jerky movements, moving so quickly she looses her balance and falls to the side. Catching herself on one arm, with her breeches caught and tangled around her calves, she catches Solas' gaze.

 

There's a moment of stillness before she snickers – she just can't _help_ it. The sound of amusement provokes a rueful smile to blossom across his mouth, and suddenly they're both laugh. She falls back, flinging an arm over her eyes as she chortles. “I'm sorry!” she chokes out, shaking in her mirth. “I just – it's like being a teenager again, fumbling around in an aravel, getting stuck in our clothes and –” Words fall away in another burst of laughter.

 

Snorting, Solas shuffles closer, still on his knees, and grips the hems of each leg before pulling her free. He quirks his eyebrows up at her, wiggling the breeches with a small flourish before tossing them away. Still giggling, she sits up to palm his narrow hips and press her mouth to the center of his chest. “Good job,” she praises.

 

She can feel his breath catch, the lift of his ribs and the goosebumps that rise under her touch. He hums lowly, before bending to kiss the crown of her head. His hands drop, pulling her long braid up so he can unwind the cord at the end. Resting her forehead against him, Harea turns her attention to his laces, beginning to pluck at the knot he inadvertently pulled monstrously tight. They work in tandem; Solas carefully unweaving her braid before carding his fingers through it (sighing heavily through his nose as he repeats the motion, as though he's been longing to fill his hands with the golden weight of it) while she focuses on the horrid mess of his ties. Once she's freed them she pauses, fingers curling at the edge of the fabric.

 

Not wanting to press to far, to overwhelm this man that has always been so careful before now, she looks up to meet his gaze. His eyes are bright with desire, lids cast low, and he's breathing heavily through his mouth. Harea's sure she's going to carry the image of this into her grave, because she's seen _nothing_ so gorgeous as Solas in the grip of lust. “Can I touch you?”

 

He gives a breathless laugh, a faint noise, and bends to kiss her. It isn't as desperate as the first; this is slow, measured, and exacting. When she whimpers into his mouth he takes her breath in, and drops a hand to curl around her own. Blindly he guides her forward, letting her do the work of pushing aside the flaps of his breeches until his cock is smooth against her palm. He breathes out heavily and runs his tongue across her lower lip before murmuring, “Yes.”

 

He pulls back to watch her touch him. It's like a fire in her stomach, this wanting, but this she doesn't rush. Instead she moves slowly, free hand pushing his breeches down until they catch on his thighs and hang there, freeing his hardness entirely. She bites her teeth against a moan, because he's beautiful and, Creators, she _wants_ him. She strokes gently, and then watches as his jaw tightens and his shoulders tense. He's intent on the image of her working him, fingers curled and wrist cocked just so. He grunts when she runs her thumb over the head, one hand taking an almost desperate grip on the back of her neck.

 

“Harea,” he says, but then his voice is lost because she's bending, hair sliding out of his fingers as she presses a kiss to the head of his cock. Parting her lips she takes him inside, pulling his foreskin back so she can slide her tongue against the sensitive underside. He spits out, “ _Fenedhis,_ ” and jerks her back. Precum is salty on her her tongue and lower lip, and but she's given only a spare moment to savor it before his mouth is back on hers.

 

Bearing her back, Solas looms over Harea as she topples. They've managed to move themselves off the bedroll, but the cold canvas feels good against her overheated skin. He touches her frantically, hands never still, mouth moving down to her jaw and then neck, before sucking a love bite at the crest of her shoulder. Cupping her breasts he pushes them together, running his tongue from one nipple to the other before rubbing his face against the soft flesh. She almost laughs at his look of intense concentration, but then he's pressing his teeth against her and her hips lurch up. He bites at random, sucking with such force that come morning her breasts will be scattered with red bruises.

 

He slides down without ever taking his mouth from her skin. He kisses the ridge of her lower ribs, licks a hot line down her stomach, dips his tongue into her belly button before sucking at the tender area. Harea is by no means a virgin and she's always believed that she has experienced truly good sex, but Solas is in a league of his own. It is his fervor, the way he molds his hands against the flare of her hips and groans against the top of her pelvic bone. It's only then that she realizes what he plans, that he's going to put his mouth on her, an a new wave of lust strikes her so hard it leaves her sweating and shaking.

 

There is no hiding the way her body responds to pleasure, the numerous little orgasms and the way she gushes wetly; it is such a _mess_ that this act has never been one often employed. But Solas, wonderful Solas that looks at the world so vastly different than many others, he's leaning back, palming her thighs even further apart before he strokes two long fingers down her cleft.

 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. A smile ghosts across his mouth as he presses softly against her clit, and her entire body jerk. “So very wet, and so _pink_ , here.” Then he dips down and drags his tongue from bottom to top, so slowly that lights pop behind Harea's eyes. She keens, hands scrabbling aimlessly before she reaches down, curling her fingers against his head and clinging for dear life.

 

In her fantasies – of which she's had more than she's ever going to be willing to admit to – Solas was not a vocal lover. The reality is infinitely better on all levels, but especially because of his _sounds._ He seems to take as much pleasure in pleasing her as she takes in receiving: he groans against her flesh, hums appreciatively, practically sobs when she comes in a hot rush. He fumbles against her hips before catching them, actually lifting her bottom from the floor to press her higher and harder against his face.

 

He sucks her clit between his teeth and it's a sharp, keen pleasure that is only magnified by the insistent curling of his tongue. She's shaking all over, one leg curled over his shoulder and her back arching high off the tent floor. “Gods – fucking Creators, Solas, yes. _Yes._ ” She doesn't think she's ever been wound so high and tight, has never throbbed this hard, has never felt such incredible pressure as she strained for her highest peak. Another orgasm takes her by surprise, and she's choking as Solas drops his mouth to her opening and greedily drinks from her. Jerking in his grasp, she finds his ear with shivering fingers, dragging her nails along the length of it. With a fierce noise, he drops her down to lunge up to cover her body with his own.

 

Catching his face between her hands, Harea licks her slick from his and lips, sucks his tongue into her mouth until they both moan. “Inside,” she begs, scraping her teeth across his sharp jaw. “Please. Please, Solas, I need you inside me, fill me up –”

 

“It has been –” Baring his teeth, Solas cuts himself off when he works a hand between their bodies and palms her cunt. He gathers her wet before fisting himself, the head of his erection dragging across her tender flesh. Speaking again, he rushes the words, as though he needs to get them out as quickly as possible. “It has been some time and I will not last long.”

 

“Don't care.” She bites his neck, intent on leaving a livid mark on his fair skin as he had done her own. “I just want to feel you.” She's so ready that it takes no effort for Solas press the head of his cock into her. He pauses, the tendons of his neck straining as she rocks against him, legs curling around his hips as she tries to take in more.

 

“I do not think – _fenedhis,_ asha, I cannot be gentle.” Still he hovers over her, trembling hard, as though waiting for her to deny him.

 

Dragging his head down she bites his lower lip, and then licks the pricks of blood that well up. He snarls, a beastly rumble she never once imagined coming from him, and snaps his hips forward. Harea shrieks, jerking under his weight as she is finally, blissfully filled. There is no stinging stretch or dull ache, only glorious _fullness._ When he pulls back it is with liquid friction, and the obscene squelch as he drives back home has her scoring his sides with her dull nails and gushing again.

 

A groaning laugh tumbles from him, even as he fists a hand in her hair so tightly it brings it tears to her eyes. “Ma'haurasha,” he pants, and fuck but he is the most beautiful thing she's ever, _ever_ seen. He's flushed red, sweat dripping down the side of his nose, grunting with each unyielding thrust. “Jutuan ma ir rosa'da'din, ma tel'aman melin,” he promises, angling his body up until he has to release her hair to brace himself on his knees. He catches one thigh in his broad palm, pushing her leg towards her chest, while his other hand presses low on her stomach. Like this he is deeper and she is tighter; every furious motion he makes has her swearing, one hand flung out to grip his abandoned bedroll.

 

She comes again, jerking hard with the force of it, but the heat and pressure remains. She's so fucking close, sitting right on the edge of a release so dark and overwhelming that it should terrify her, but Harea only plants her foot against the floor and tries to fuck Solas back. “Oh Creators, Creators, _fuck._ ”

 

“My name,” he snarls, leaning into her leg so her knee is nearly at her chest. “There are no gods here. Say it. Scream it, ma'haurasha.”

 

“ _Solas,_ holy – shit – gods be damned, it's so good, you're so good, _please_ –” Twisting, she drops a hand between them, rubbing herself in quick, short circles.

 

He actually shouts, breathlessly, as her cunt bears down harder then she even knew was possible. It's clear he's on the verge of coming, and Harea wants it; wants his seed inside her and his pleasure written across his face; wants to know she _did_ this to him, that she crumbled this strong man to absolute pieces. His movements become messy and gain speed, but that's _good,_ it's all so damn good –

 

“Rosa'da'din in'em,” she begs, lights at the edge of her vision as she begins to fracture. “Rosa'da'din in'em, rosa –”

 

Solas clenches his jaw and hisses, before cursing in a stream of Elvhen Harea can't even begin to piece together. Then he is spilling into her, a ragged cry in his throat as his back bows. The dim mage lights catch the sweat on his body and make him glow like something divine, and he's grinding into her with such force she slides across the floor without his hand on her belly to hold her place. The sight of him like this, utterly torn apart, it hits Harea like a bolt of lightning. Her throat aches she screams so hard.

 

It goes on, and on, and on; she's falling, hurtling, every muscle pulled to the snapping point. And she isn't gushing but flooding, more than ever before, and the release of this is so profound that she becomes aware of tears on her cheeks. She can't hear anything past the rush of blood in her ears and her heaving breaths, can't see, can't think, can't do anything but _feel._

 

Like a cord being snapped it ends, and Harea goes limp. She's actually sobbing, chest lifting in heaving breathes. An aftershock courses through her without warning when Solas drops her leg and topples to rest over her, and her heels scrape the floor as she keens and jerks.

 

“Oh yes,” Solas hoarsely utters, cupping the side of her face. “Take all your pleasure, Harea. You fell apart so prettily, ran a slick river over my cock. Harea, fenorian, ma'haurasha... there you go, yes, hold me tight in your lovely cunt. You are a wonder, brilliant, the softest, sweetest thing in his world.”

 

Whimpering his name, she blindly turns her face up, seeking his mouth. He catches her in a slick, lazy kiss, taking the time to trace to the roof of her mouth and taste the curve of her cheek. It slides into another, and another, until Solas pulls away to lick up the line of her throat. “Are you always this sensitive afterward?” His words are pressed under her ear, teeth catching on the lobe.

 

Harea gives a small, jerking shake of her head. “No. Not like this. It just keeps... _going._ I can't stop shaking.”

 

He hums in response, sliding his fingers into her hair and catching her mouth again. When he breaks away his expression is one of loose satisfaction and unabashedly smug. “You're going to hang this over my head all the time, aren't you?” she asks, almost managing to sound cross. The effect is rather ruined when her legs tighten on his hips, her toes catching against the breeches still around his knees.

 

“Mm, I rather think there will be no need, as I plan on having you in this state as often as possible.” Harea certainly doesn't plan on arguing with _that,_ but Solas pauses. Under her hands, his back ripples with sudden tension. “Unless you object, of course.”

 

Weakly looping her arms around his neck, she gives him the sweetest, most self-satisfied smile she summon. “Solas, you're a wonderful companion and a dear friend, but if you take away the promise of more earth shattering orgasms, I _will_ smother you in your sleep.”

 

A boyish grin lights up his face. “Well, then, considering I'm under the threat of death from the Lady Herald...”

 

“Oh yes, _such_ a burden to bear.”

 

“I suppose I will simply have to fight my way through.” She gives his chin a playful nip, certain she's glowing as his body shakes with low laughter. After a few more moments he pulls out of her, both of them making soft noises of discontent. Their spend trickles out of Harea, rewetting her thighs.

 

“I need to clean up,” she mutters. And then groans, weakly, because she's still trembling like a leaf and isn't sure she'll be able to move any time soon.

 

“In the morning.”

 

Blinking, Harea opens her eyes to give him a startled look. Even Adhlea, her closet friend in the clan and sometimes lover, had quickly recoiled from the mess between Harea's thighs once their pleasure had been spent. “But I'm – it's very –” She doesn't know how to articulate that she's absolutely disgusting right now, that the flooring under her ass is wet, that the fabric at his knees is wet, that she's slick down to her _own_ knees. Solas leverages himself to one side of her, kicking off his breeches. Folding one pant leg in on itself, he carefully wipes her thighs and aching sex.

 

“Good enough until morning,” he pronounces, and then yawns hugely. Tossing his breeches away he catches her arm, tugging her with him. They fumble and squirm and, in Harea's very limp boned case, roll back onto the bedroll. It's crooked but perfectly serviceable, and Solas catches her bear fur with his toes and hauls it up. Once they are covered, a lazy flick of his fingers banishes the mage lights, bringing darkness to the tent.

 

Surprisingly – or maybe unsurprisingly, given his earlier cuddling – he keeps her close. She lies half across his chest, head pillowed near his clavicle, and drifts lazily towards sleep. Solas finds it before she does, puffing softly as he enters the Fade. It is, she discovers, the happiest she's been since leaving her clan.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Babala: grandfather  
> Juveran na su tarasyl: I will take you to the sky.  
> Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin: I will make you come so much, you won't remember your name.  
> Rosa’da’din in’em: Come inside me.  
> ma'haurasha: my honey. A very sexual endearment that essentially means “You make me wet,” or “You make me hard.” (Also a literal edge in that, Harea provides a lot of... you know what literally blushing to hard to finish this. WHO KNEW THAT COULD HAPPEN.)  
> ALL ELVHEN is taken from fenxshiral. Praise her, praise her...


End file.
